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Hype on Lookbook
Hype on Lookbook
On Saturday night I took photos at a reader called Olivia's 21st. Everyone there was Italian and related and they stood really close and touched my arms when they talked and held my hands and kissed me hello and goodbye, and didn't let go until they had finished talking, as if they were scared they'd never again get the chance to explore the recesses in my fingers and wrinkles and joints. And as somebody's Nonna leaned in so close I could smell the sweetness in her years, I thought, I could fit right in here.
Perhaps I'm actually Italian, estranged at birth from my family of extravagantly expressive people, these effervescent people, a fountain of language and emotion.
Perhaps my Italian-ness is the root cause of the punctilious manner in which I select my baristas, silently measuring the crema in their espressos and appraising their quality. It mustn't be too hot, or it will burn. The grind has to be the right consistency, not too coarse so that the richness of the espresso is lost and becomes a puddle of black water. And the soy, that dastardly make-or-break that proves so difficult to achieve. A barista that scorches the soy milk has ruined the drink and should proceed to get a job elsewhere.
Yes; I think I'm actually Italian.
Ciao!
Chanelle
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